


The Broken Tower

by viewingcutscene



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, F/M, Feels, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-08 13:41:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4307262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viewingcutscene/pseuds/viewingcutscene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Archdemon has been defeated, but the cost is too high for Alistair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Broken Tower

“And where exactly,” Wynne said, her grey head bent over the shirt she was mending, “do you see this relationship going, Alistair?”

Not here. He’d thought maybe across the sea to Antiva, or to seek out more Grey Wardens to rebuild. Anywhere but a broken tower looming over a desolated town.

He had been racing towards her when the final blast had knocked Warden Aeducan back, bowling him over, spilling her red hair over his lap. Alistair pulled her tight against him, their legs splayed and tangled together in a hideous parody of love, but there was no breath to her lips, no heartbeat under the leather jerkin. He couldn’t even remember her name - not because there’d be tears, those would come, he had no doubt of that - but because she was on the far side of a yawning grey chasm and vertigo was drawing him in. If he remembered her name, he thought he would tumble into the hole and be lost to his Warden, no hope of reunion after death - just lonely grey stone.

A scraping hiss cut through the fog along the clattering sound of metal being dragged over stone. Alistair struggled to focus, and saw a dying hurlock had drawn near, dribbling blood and phlegm down its ruined face.

“Pretty little Warden,” it hissed, “so sad.”

“Shut your mouth,” Alistair said, but there was no heat to his words, and the hurlock grinned.

“All alone, ser?” it said, struggling to stand. “Can you rebuild the Wardens before the taint takes you?” Alistair said nothing, thinking of his body as a battlefield where the lines had been drawn between lyrium addiction and the taint. Where exactly did you see this relationship going, Alistair?

“But two Wardens, ahhhhh…” The hurlock released its breath in a painful gasp, “Two can rebuild where one can do nothing.”

Unable to stop himself, he looked down at the still face in the crook of his arm. Her lips were drawn back from her teeth, and Alistair had no idea whether triumph or pain consumed her last moments. Either way, the first icy shards of pain wormed into his heart.

“My mistress-” The hurlock hitched in another painful breath, and continued. “My mistress can bring her back. Those who’ve gone never linger far from edge of the Fade at first.”

“Your mistress?” Alistair felt thick headed and clumsy, and cursed his nature. “Wait- you mean a demon.”

“Ser, we are beyond such petty squabbles here.”

In spite of himself, Alistair let out a cracked laugh. “Petty?” He lifted his free hand meaning to rub his hair, a nervous habit from youth that never left him, but settled for gesturing to the dead dragon, whose nose bumped up against Warden Aeducan’s feet.

“Listen, fool, I don’t have time for jokes.” The hurlock’s eyes were flickering, dimmer and dimmer. Its voice grew harsh. “You cannot rebuild the Wardens alone, and it is not in your nature to leave it to chance that the other Wardens will seek you out before the taint consumes you.”

“You don’t know that,” Alistair said, and he hated the sound of his voice. His lady would’ve been stronger.

“Feel her cheek, little Warden. What would you give to feel her smile against your hand once more? To see the slaying grimace soften into a kiss for her loved one?”

“I said, stop!”

But the hurlock inched closer, enough to caress the tip of the dead Warden’s boot. “You could hear these feet coming towards you joyfully.”

Alistair struggled to drag her away, but seated as he was, managed to barely twitch her. She had never been so heavy when he’d carried her before. Now he felt as if they both weighed a million pounds.

“She would not want to come back,” he whispered to the creeping darkspawn.

“No?” it grinned. “No?”

“No.” Alistair shook his head. “I mean yes, but she chose this. For Ferelden. For me.”

“She could have Ferelden and you, both. Who are you to choose death for her now?”

“She’s a Warden, like me. Death now, or death later, we all choose it when we hear the call.”

“Ah, yes,” the hurlock said, blood pumping faster between it’s fingers. “The call. Will you hear it, Ser? What will you find in the Deep Roads? Surely, your beloved will wait for you. But such a long… hungry wait…” The hate in the monster’s eyes dimmed to grey stones as it twitched in the final throes of death.

The icy shards in his heart cracked wider, and Alistair felt the tears sting. He knew what the demon was offering was not his Warden, but a semblance of her. Even with that knowledge, the temptation was great. He did the only thing he could think of. His voice cracked and begging, he called out for Wynne, but she was already there, the butt of her staff slamming into the back of the hurlock’s head, which bounced once against the stone and was still.

Wynne knelt and gathered up the errant knight she’d come to love like a son in her arms, hugging the dead Warden between them and Alistair wept.

 

 

 


End file.
